Spying for Dummies
by alwaysflying
Summary: Benny has a secret. Maureen wants to know what it is.


"Benny!"

I raise my eyes from my book, making sure to cover the first half of the title – _for Dummies_, Maureen can read, but unless she moves my hand – which I don't doubt she'll attempt – there's no way she can read the rest.

"Yeah?"

She snickers. "Nice choice of literature, Benny," she teases, and slips her arms out of her sleeves, dumping her coat onto the ground.

I try to stay casual. "Yeah, I just thought I should…" I trail off, hoping she won't ask.

"_What _for dummies?" she asks sharply.

I blush. "I'm not telling you, asshole," I tell her bluntly. "Butt out."

"Are you _ten_?" she sneers. "Come on. Let me see."

"No!"

She sighs exaggeratedly. "Fine, then," she says, and whistles. "Be a baby. _I _don't care." She crosses her arms over her chest. "It's not like it affects _me_."

"Exactly," I agree dully. "So stay out of it."

I idly consider tucking the book into my shirt so I can continue reading in my room. I can't _not _expect to be ambushed by Maureen, though, so I decide not to. Sure enough, I can see her fingers twitching toward me. I swiftly duck out of her reach, rolling over to the other end of the couch. "Nice try."

She huffs in frustration. "What _is _it, Benny?" she wails, kicking the ground aggravatedly.

"Can't tell you," I sing-song, and now I know I'm being obnoxious, but it's amusing – to me, at least.

Maureen angrily shoves her toe into a leg of the table. "You're a _bastard_," she mumbles. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Have fun with that," I tell her absently, and return my attention to the book. I scan the cover, hoping desperately that there are no illustrations that might give away my secret, the truth of what lies within these pages.

She turns towards the bathroom, her curls cascading down her back. I long to yank one to inform her of what happens to nosy brats who don't let people read in peace.

As she retrieves a communal towel from the door of the bathroom, I watch her warily. I am, of course, expecting her to return to her harrassment of me and my book.

"Yuppies for Dummies," I hear her muttering as she tosses her clothes lazily onto the floor of the hallway (and I _know _how Roger and Collins will react to this: by dangling the offending articles out the window until Maureen retrieves them or until they decide to just let them _go_) and tucking her towel beneath her breasts. She always does this. I have no idea why. It's possible that it gives her a sense of, well, enhancement in the chest area.

I flush. "It is _not _Yuppies for Dummies, you bitch. Take your fucking shower." I draw a cigarette out of a box that absolutely does not belong to me, but hopefully isn't hers either. Most likely, it's Roger's. He's always leaving his shit all over the apartment and never remembering until the posessions are long gone.

"Then what _is _it?"

I growl in frustration. "Leave me _alone_."

A moment later – and I have no idea how this happened – Maureen's slim body is seated atop my lap, the book sprawled over the other end of the couch. I twitch. Luckily for me, it's landed upside-down, with the back cover facing up, and I hastily catch Maureen's wrists in my hand, hoping she doesn't kick me or do something else that will allow her to procure the book.

"Why are you on my lap?" I ask. For someone so skinny, she can sure knock the wind out of a guy. "I mean, you know, Mark could walk in at any second…"

"And I'd kiss you," she chirps. "He _knows _I cheat. He wouldn't be mad at _me_."

She's right, of course. Mark would, if at anyone, be angry at me. I exhale. I'm helpless, but I've always been good at making people think otherwise.

"Well," I say slowly, "he wouldn't be mad at anyone. Mark's a good-natured guy, you know. He'd probably overlook it."

She considers this. It's _possible_, I admit. Mark's temperament can best be described as mild, and it is. While he might choose to explode in the event that he saw his friend kissing his girlfriend, I can't help but suspect that he would toss a box of condoms at us and leave us alone.

Obviously, Maureen is thinking the same way. She snickers. "Can I see the book anyway?" she asks with a pout.

"No."

"What?" she asks expectantly.

Baffled, I echo, "_What_?"

"Didn't you just say Mo?"

I laugh. "I said _no_," I clarify.

She frowns. Her brow furrows. "Nobody ever tells me _no_," she complains.

"Then let me be the first. No, Maureen, you cannot see my book."

Of course, she snatches it up anyway. It's a gesture so simple that I might, in a less serious situation, find it amusing. She merely reaches her foot out and uses it to flip the book over.

Gasping and cackling, Maureen's eyes are huge. Even with skin as dark as mine, I half-expect my cheeks to be as red as the burgundy of Mark's sweater. Oh, this is embarrassing. Why did I even get the book anyway? Just because one person thought I had talent, I had to go to the library and get a whole book on the subject.

"Benny," Maureen chortles, "why the hell would you want to be a ballet dancer?"


End file.
